Overreaction
by AuthenticAussie
Summary: "MARCOO!" He screamed, back peddling furiously from the prone body and staggering to his feet. "Oh my God, oh my God," he chanted, sprinting straight for the bow, where he knew Marco was. "Marrrrcoooo!" he yelled again, and saw the blond turn, a frown on his features. "Marco, help! I KILLED HIM!"


Once every two to three months or so, the Moby Dick would pull up in the largest port they could find that wasn't Marine occupied, and the whole crew would go shopping for two simple items: decking oil and tar.

When the whole town was practically looted of those two basic materials, the divisions that were currently stationed on the Moby Dick set to work. While tar was quite a usual thing for a ship, to prevent ropes from fraying (and that would most certainly be an awful thing to occur on a ship as large as the Moby Dick) the decking oil was something that Marco had picked up on in an old village he'd used to live in.

By painting all the wood with the substance, it helped to improve the water proofing of the ship, and while shipwrights would usually do it when a ship was first made or whenever the Moby Dick pulled in for repairs, with all of the grief they put the old ship through, Whitebeard had decided that it would be better to increase the care of the Moby rather than leave it till later, and the crew pitched in to help every time.

Even if some of them liked to whinge more than the others, or a few liked to practically attack each other with the very sticky and hard to remove decking oil, all of the members of the Whitebeard pirates pitched in to help.

All the Whitebeard Pirates bar _one._

Of course, he wasn't technically a Whitebeard pirate (_yet_, Thatch reminded himself as he watched Ace glower at everyone who tried to disturb him but obligingly move out of the way without having to be asked whenever he saw someone who was hard at work.), but he should at least get the practice, right?

Bucket and brush in hand, Thatch made his careful way across the dry spots on the deck until he found his way to Ace. A big grin on his features, he saw Ace's expression turn even more foul when he was spotted. "C'mon you big fire baby!" Thatch said, and Ace looked slightly affronted and taken-back by the nickname, "If you're gonna be sailin' with us, you better get used to workin' with us too!"

"I'm _not _sailing with you," Ace huffed, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes even more, "I'm _still _trying to kill your captain."

"Uh-huh," Thatch replied distractedly, having spotted a part of the wood in the rails that was unpainted, "That's nice."

"You're _insane_," Ace said, in a very tired sounding tone, and Thatch made a mental note to make sure that the night watch didn't disturb Ace on deck anymore. He didn't sound like he'd been getting that much sleep.

"You love us," Thatch chirped instead of remarking on it, and he cast Ace a grin, flicking the young man with the decking oil on his paintbrush.

Ace collapsed.

There was a brief moment as Thatch paused, trying to take in Ace's suddenly unmoving form, his side now coated with the decking oil, and he frowned in bewilderment at the act…

Before realising that the young man wasn't breathing.

_"SHIT!" _ he yelped, mouth dropping open in horror. He moved forwards, placing his hand on Ace's chest and spiralling even further into a panic when he couldn't feel the steady beat of a heart beneath his hand. "_MARCOO!" _He screamed, back peddling furiously from Ace's prone body and staggering to his feet. "Oh my God, oh my God," he chanted, sprinting straight for the bow, where he knew Marco was._ "Marrrrcoooo!" _he yelled again, and saw the blond turn, a frown on his features._ "_Marco, fuck_, help! _I KILLED HIM!"

Marco's look of complete confusion only got even worse, "Wha- _what_?" He asked incredulously, staring at Thatch like he'd grown a third arm, before shaking his head and laying his arms on Thatch's shoulders, his expression in control again. "Calm down, yoi. What are you talking about? Who did you kill?"

"Ace!" Thatch yelled mournfully, feeling on the verge of tears, "We were talking and then I hit him with my paintbrush and he fell over _and he's not moving!_"

Marco's eyes widened as Thatch spilled his story, and then he was taking off, practically flying across the ship with the cook doggedly on his heels. By the time they'd gotten back to Ace, a crowd had gathered because of the ruckus, and Marco had to shove his way through to kneel by Ace's body, uncaring that his pants were getting stained and only concerned with checking on the health of their guest.

_Newest almost crewmate, _Thatch thought to himself, worry in his eyes as Marco began checking for signs of a pulse, _but he probably won't be joining our crew when he finds out I almost killed him! Please, please, please, _he practically begged, as Marco rocked back on his heels and heaved a sigh._ "Well_?_"_ he demanded, when Marco didn't speak, "Is he alright?!"

Marco rested his forehead on his fingertips, kneading into the sides, and the crowd practically leaned inwards to hear their first mate speak. "As always," Marco said, fastening Thatch with a steely look, "You've managed to completely overreact. He's asleep, yoi."

The crowd heaved a sigh of relief, before a few of the people closest to him elbowed his ribs and gave him annoyed glares for causing such a panic. "But…We were having a conversation." Thatch half-protested in his confusion, "How the hell is he _asleep?_"

"I don't know," Marco replied, propping Ace up against one of the unpainted banisters, "Maybe someone hypnotised him to fall asleep when he's hit by a paintbrush?"

Thatch frowned incredulously, and gave an internal wince at seeing Ace's hair and side coated in decking oil. _That _was going to be a pain to wash off later. "Why would someone hypnotise him to fall asleep whenever he's hit by a _paintbrush, _though? That seems pretty useless."

"I dunno!" Marco said again, this time looking rather annoyed by the questions and standing up, "Contrary to what you all appear to think, I don't _magically _know the answers to all your questions!"

The whole crowd paused in a moment of synchronisation, staring at the Phoenix in bewilderment, before they began to laugh. Marco's expression grew even grumpier, especially when Thatch gave him a friendly punch in the shoulder. "Oh that's a funny joke, Marco."

"You're an asshole," Marco grumbled, giving Thatch a shove that only made the cook laugh harder, "You're _all_ assholes." Pushing his way through the crowd again, which had already begun to disperse now that the excitement was over with, he made his way back up to his abandoned bucket and rollerbrush.

Thatch heaved a breath, catching it from the earlier laughing fest, and slid down the dry banister to sit next to Ace's motionless body. Now that he had a moment to breathe, and without the terrifying thought of 'oh God he's dead', bouncing through his head, Thatch could see that Ace was actually breathing. Rather shallowly, but his chest still rose and fell. Heaving another sigh, this one at his own kind of stupidity (he knew Marco would be teasing him about this for a few weeks yet, after he'd gotten over his foul mood,) Thatch grinned at the sky.

"You sure are good at making us panic, Ace. First claimin' you gonna kill pops, now with this sleepy-fainty spell of yours." Thatch gave a quiet snigger to himself, trying to fight back the grin the mental image bought to his head. "Can't believe you got hypnotised to fall asleep when you get hit by a _paintbrush _though. That's just _stupid._"

Ace snuffled next to him, mouth dropping open and he let loose the most _enormous _snore Thatch had ever heard anymore make – and he slept on a ship with Pops.

Well, at least this proved what Marco had said; Ace was definitely asleep.

Idly painting a strip of the wood while he waited for Ace to wake up, Thatch allowed his thoughts to drift. They came to rest on Pops, who was sneakily watching the two of them, likely to ensure that they didn't get into any trouble while Ace had his nap, and Thatch felt the first seeds of a plot grow in his mind.

Izo probably had paint, and as long as Ace was still sleeping, it wasn't like he could protest, right? He'd have to shower and get the decking oil off at _some _point, but while it was there Ace wouldn't react to anything else being applied to his skin.

An evil grin spread slowly across Thatch's features, and he almost laughed to himself. Looks like Ace was going to get inducted into the Whitebeards a bit earlier than Thatch though he would've!

Resisting the urge to cackle, Thatch got up and sprinted for Izo, determined to grab Izo's paint and then drag the other pirate into his scheme. Izo could paint better than he could, anyway, and Ace would look – in Izo's words, – absolutely lovely with Whitebeard's insignia drawn in bold colour on his back.


End file.
